


The finer things

by framboise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Academia, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cunnilingus, Daddy Issues, Dirty Talk, F/M, Gift Giving, Luxury, Older Man/Younger Woman, Romance, Seduction, Slow Build, Sugar Daddy, Teacher-Student Relationship, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-07-29 03:05:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16255376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framboise/pseuds/framboise
Summary: In which scholarship student Sansa Stark accidentally acquires a sugar daddy."I can understand you might not be looking for a serious relationship during university, but no romance, for a lovely girl like you," he tsk's and looks genuinely sorrowful, "such a shame darling," he says and places a warm hand over hers.At the touch, at his gaze, she feels a flush creep up her neck and wants to squirm in her seat. There's something about him, about his attention to her, that makes her feel warm, wanted.It's just that he's sort of fatherly, she reasons when she talks to Margaery about it - Margaery who was intrigued the first time she found out about the fortnightly coffees, and that Petyr always paid.





	The finer things

**Author's Note:**

> Just another fic to add to my #soft sugar daddy oeuvre
> 
> Ages in this story: Sansa - 20, Petyr - 43
> 
> and if you want visuals, I made a photoset [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/179829297317/in-which-scholarship-student-sansa-stark)

 

 

“And romance,” Petyr asks, rubbing a thumb across his bottom lip thoughtfully, “you’re done with that too?”

“I don’t have time for it,” Sansa says with a shrug, flipping her plait over her shoulder.

Petyr, Mr Baelish, is one of her mother’s old friends from university and a professor in the Economics department, and Sansa has been having coffee with him once a fortnight for a year now - though she certainly didn’t set out to have a standing date like that with a man who was by all definitions a stranger when she first met him, a kind stranger who helped her out that first week when he found her weeping outside the doors of the library because she hadn’t made it in time to snag the last copy of the required reading she needed for a class two days away, and she didn’t have the money to buy a new one, she didn’t have money for anything except the essentials, not after her father passed away when she was thirteen and their house was almost repossessed by the bank. Petyr had expressed dismay that her scholarship didn't include funds to purchase books and he had taken her straight to the campus bookshop to buy the copy she needed and then mopped up her tears with tea at a nearby cafe, saying it was the least he could do for a daughter of Cat's.

Petyr clucks his tongue and tilts his head, looks at her with those curious grey-green eyes of his. "I can understand you might not be looking for a serious relationship during university, but no romance, for a lovely girl like you," he tsk's and looks genuinely sorrowful, "such a shame darling," he says and places a warm hand over hers.

At the touch, at his gaze, she feels a flush creep up her neck and wants to squirm in her seat. There's something about him, about his attention to her, that makes her feel warm, wanted.

It's just that he's sort of fatherly, she reasons when she talks to Margaery about it - Margaery who was intrigued the first time she found out about the coffees, and that Petyr always paid.

 _Of course he does_ , Sansa had replied absentmindedly, _he's loaded and he knows that I'm a scholarship student, it would be a bit rude to make me pay_.

 _But you don't split the bill_?

 _No_ , Sansa had said, feeling a twinge of shame, _he likes to go to The White Hart, he says it's more comfortable there_.

Margaery's eyes had raised at that and she had hummed meaningfully and Sansa had shrugged and turned back to her notes.

Secretly she'd hate it if Petyr changed the venue of their meetings, because The White Hart, in all its old-world glamour - the pale leather banquettes softened by decades of diners, the faded murals and gilt-edged mirrors with interesting tarnished spots, the silver teapots and delicate crockery, the glittering chandeliers and the waiters with crisp waistcoats - make her feel like she's in a film, makes her feel like the everyday stresses of her life have vanished with the first click of her boots on its worn marble floors.

He's still looking at her and now his thumb is stroking back and forth across the back of her hand and she really hopes she's not visibly blushing.

"Perhaps it's the calibre of the young men on offer that have put the nail in the coffin of your hopes, hmm?" he offers and then takes his hand back to pour himself more tea.

She likes to watch his hands - elegant, slim, always clean - as he pours tea from the teapot, or as he sips from his cup, or when he picks up her scarf to wrap it around her neck. And if she makes a point to always wear a scarf to their meetings, even a light one on warm days, then so what, she thinks. It is nice though, to have someone touch her like that, help her on with a coat, smooth their hands down her shoulders or tuck her scarf into her lapels. It is nice to be looked after, she thinks, and feels a pang of longing that makes her drop her head and stare at her own cup of tea.

"Undergraduate men don't do much to recommend themselves," he continues. "Like that boy from the second term, I forget his name."

"Harry," she says, embarrassed that Petyr even knows about him, about the rich boy who had been so awful during their brief month of dating - pushy and rude and remarkably skilled at making her feel ashamed about her family's situation. "Yes," she says ruefully, crossing her ankles underneath the table, "I'm not exactly missing out by giving up all that."

"Still," Petyr says again, and lifts a hand for the bill. "A life without romance, without the finer things, isn't a life I would wish for you." His forehead creases and she thinks suddenly of her dad, and how he always wanted the very best for her, how he used to reread her the same stories about princesses and happy endings at bedtimes, even though he must have been bored by the tenth time.

"Sansa," Petyr says, as the bill arrives and he slides his platinum card onto the silver tray, "I hope you won't mind if I make a proposition."

She freezes, clutching her hands together in her lap. Is he—

"Proposition is quite a loaded term, isn't it," he says apologetically with a twinkle in his eye. "I'd like, Sansa, to take you out to dinner sometimes, or to the theatre, the ballet," he says, motioning with a swing of his hand, "to gallery openings and things of that sort. I feel it is my duty, you see, to give you that. Romance, in the aesthetic sense, I mean."

"Oh, but Mr Baelish, you don't have to—"

"Mr Baelish, you haven't called me that for months now," he says with a small smile, and puts his hand over hers where she's been twisting at the tablecloth. "It's Petyr," he says.

"Petyr," she corrects.

"I admit to not being entirely altruistic with this suggestion, because it would do me good to have company, to have a reason to attend cultural events, I have found myself a little hermit-like recently."

What about other women, she thinks, why can't he take dates on these evenings out? But she doesn't say that because she _wants_ to go with him, she wants to be treated, to sit next to him in the dark of a theatre watching something magical happen on the stage, to be guided around by him at a gallery opening with his hand on the small of her back, to eat plates of immaculately presented food somewhere where the only sounds are silver cutlery against porcelain and the glug of fine wine being poured.

"Now, I know there's a question of attire with this sort of thing, that you might worry about what to wear, and I want you to know that of course I would help you with that. It would hardly be fair of me to invite you to the opera and make you scrimp on lunch to fund a new dress, now, would it."

"Oh, I couldn't—"

"I would insist upon it," he says, stroking his thumb against her hand again and then the waiter returns with the bill and Petyr stands up from his seat. "What do you say?" he asks, turning up the collar of his fine cashmere coat.

"Yes," Sansa says, a little embarrassed by how breathlessly eager she sounds. Shouldn't she turn him down politely, tell him that he's being too kind, that he doesn't have to be so generous?

"Wonderful," he says with a smile and then he's helping her on with her coat, smoothing his hands down her shoulders, twisting her and tying her scarf neatly under her chin as she stares at him dazedly. "There," he says softly, and pats the knot of her scarf.

He's so close she can smell the mint from the tea he drank, feel the brush of his breath across her lips.

"Neat as a pin," he says, and strokes a knuckle down her cheek and she feels a strange urge to cry, an urge to wrap her arms around his neck, to hide her face in his shoulder and have him hold her up. She blinks and fiddles with one of the buttons of her coat.

"Dinner somewhere nice next week to start, I think," he says, as he picks up his bag. "And then we'll graduate onto theatre and then a gallery after that," he says with a small, pleased smile that Sansa returns.

"Oh," he says, when they reach the noisy street outside, "and I'll be in touch about an outfit," he adds, "if that isn't too presumptuous."

"No," she says with a shake of her head, even though it is, really, she thinks, but god, she hasn't bought any new clothes in nine months now and it's become increasingly hard to hide the worn patches of her favourite dresses and jumpers. The coat she's wearing now - the green wool that she adores and one that she couldn't have dreamed of affording by herself - was a surprise Christmas present from Petyr and so she knows he has good taste.

"Excellent," he says and then tilts his head in farewell. "Speak soon, Sansa," he says and she lifts a hand to wave and walks back to the library trying to cling to the atmosphere of The White Hart, and Petyr's warm company, for as long as possible, before she remembers the essays due this weekend, and the tutoring she'll have to do tonight to pay for relative luxuries like an occasional morning coffee and money to wash her clothes in the laundrette instead of the sink in her room.

Her meetings with Petyr have been a godsend really, a little slice of heaven during difficult times, an hour in which she feels calm and cared for. But for a man like him an hour with her must be such a small part of the colour of his weeks, she thinks. She knows that he's very successful, he's always being featured on the university website and giving quotes to the media and flying here and there to give speeches and she's seen his book on many a bookshop table.

Margaery, who googled him when Sansa told her she was too embarrassed to, informed her that he's also ridiculously rich, and spammed Sansa with pictures she dredged up in some web archive from Petyr's old house in the Vale before he moved to King's Landing. _It had swimming pools_ , Sansa, Margaery had said, _plural, and you should have seen the size of his dressing room_.

Sansa doesn't tell Margaery about Petyr's proposition that evening when she meets her in the library to study, and she doesn't know why - perhaps because it's too good to be true, isn't it, being taken to fancy events and bought nice clothes to wear, and she doesn't want to jinx it; or perhaps because she doesn't want Margaery to give her that look, like her acquaintance with Petyr, or his attention, _means_ something. He's just being friendly, is all, like a kindly uncle, Sansa thinks as she cricks her neck and opens the next well-thumbed research book.

 

*

 

Two weeks later, Petyr picks her up from the halls where the scholarship students live in a sleek sportscar that has drawn a crowd around it by the time he leads her out of the building and opens the door for her to slide onto a smooth, buttery leather seat.

She's wearing the dress he had delivered to her, a purple number with gauzy lace sleeves and a skirt that falls in folds to her knees, along with black ankle boots that he also sent and the green coat he gifted her previously. But her underwear is her own, she had thought absentmindedly as she twisted back and forth in front of the mirror after dressing and carefully curling her hair, and then flushed.

She admits that there was a moment before she opened the package he sent when she worried that she'd find some terrible skimpy dress that would turn the whole situation sordid, and was relieved when she brought out the dress which slipped through her fingers like the best expensive fabrics.

She's forgone tights tonight, because they looked too fussy with her outfit, but his car seats are heated, she realises with a happy hum as he pulls out of the university.

"You look a vision tonight, Sansa," he says, glancing across with a pleased smile.

"That's all your doing, thank you again, Petyr," she says, hands fiddling with the hem of her skirt.

He tsks, "I've always believed that it's the woman who makes the clothes, not the other way around."

The restaurant is in the Maidenvault of the old Red Keep and, in a nod to its origin, it's been decorated in feminine tones - pink velvets, rose gold metals, glinting crystal lampshades – and goes by the name of _Blush_. Sansa had heard of it, of course, and jealousy scrolled Instagram pictures of those who had been lucky enough to dine there despite the six month waiting list, and she might have let out a little excited yelp when she got Petyr's email about the location of their...outing, that's the right word, isn't it, it's not exactly a date.

Maybe Petyr already had a dinner booked here but the woman stood him up, although Sansa can't imagine why, surely he's quite the catch - handsome, refined, generous, and certainly attentive, she thinks as he takes her coat himself, slipping it off her shoulders carefully so he doesn't catch her hair, and hands it to the maître d'hôtel, before leading her with a hand on her back to the seats he's had reserved in one of the turret spaces, next to the windows that look out onto the city glimmering with lights.

She sighs as she sits down in the luxuriously comfortable velvet seat, glances at the view, and then touches the crisp white of the tablecloth, the gleam of the silver service.

"You approve then," Petyr says with a smirk twitching his lips.

"I do, sorry," she shakes her head and smiles, "I'll try not to gawp at everything like a country bumpkin, it's just I never dreamed of coming somewhere like this for dinner," she says, voice trailing off as the waiter arrives with a bottle of pink champagne.

"I pre-ordered this vintage," Petyr says as the waiter pours the champagne into crystal glasses with a careful motion that implies he's spent months training to pour a drink just so. "If that's alright?"

"Yes," Sansa says, and tries not to sound too eager. She shuts her eyes at the first sip, at the rich fizz of the bubbles.

"Good?" Petyr asks, rasping finger and thumb through his beard.

"Very good," she says and he smiles indulgently.

The food is just as good as the champagne, as is the ambience of the restaurant - the soft lighting, the muted conversation, the whisper-quiet sound of the kitchen doors easing open and closed, the warmth of the discreet copper radiators - and Sansa feels almost drunk with enjoyment by the time dessert arrives, even though she's only had two and half glasses of the champagne.

They've been talking about the city, Petyr asking her what her experience is like living here as a student, Sansa eagerly listening to his tales of his visits here twenty years ago, the changes he's seen, the gossip and the parties.

"I'm sorry I don't have more interesting tales to tell," she says, watching him twirl his spoon in his pistachio ice cream topped with real gold leaf and flash-frozen raspberries.

"Do you want something different?" he asks, nodding at the untouched chocolate concoction before her.

"Oh no," she says and bites her lip, "I'm just waiting. I already know I'm going to love it, I just want to savour it."

"We can come here again, Sansa," he says, his forehead creasing as if she's made him sad, "honestly, this needn't be a onetime visit. It would be rather cruel of me to deny you having a second chance to have such a dessert," he says approvingly as she eats her first spoonful of warm chocolate souffle studded with dark chocolate chips and hazelnuts and licks her bottom lip to catch the sauce that has dripped.

But before she can say that she couldn't possibly ask him to take her out to such an expensive restaurant regularly, he answers her previous comment. "And don't apologise, I have two decades worth of experiences on you, in terms of stories to tell, and I know that you've been working hard these past few years, studying, wiping the floor with all your competition," he says, eyes glittering.

"I suppose so," she says, "you make it sound more interesting, more ruthless than it is, I think, I mostly just live in the library."

"Hmm," he says, draining his champagne glass before the waiter appears as if by magic to fill it up again, "you're telling me that you're not ambitious, that you don't keep a close watch on your competitors and strive to beat certain rivals with your essay marks?"

"I guess so," she says. She tucks a loose curl behind her ear and leans forward as if admitting something quite shameful, "There _is_ a girl who I jokingly refer to as my nemesis."

"Is there now," he says with a chuckle. "And let me guess, she's only ever beaten your marks twice at most."

"Once," Sansa says quickly and then smiles shyly as Petyr laughs.

"You see. I might have spent time battling with the markets, duelling with investors and traders, but you do just the same thing with literature and words. I can see you're about to say something self-deprecating," he says then, leaning forward and taking her hand, "don't," he says firmly, pulsing her fingers in his grip, "you need to get better at receiving complements, darling."

"I guess I do," she says, feeling a tingle spread up her arm from his touch and his intent gaze.

"You do," he says, "that'll be my other task, as well as treating you to the finer things. I suppose it's the teacher in me," he says with a sly smile.

She's tried to imagine what he might be like as a teacher, if she studied economics, but every time she pictures his lectures, or his meetings with individual students in his office, she finds herself jealous, finds herself thinking about him being just as kind and thoughtful, as encouraging as he is with her, with them – this despite her having snooped at his reviews online and seen students comment that he's a harsh taskmaker who lacks the personal touch, that he's "the most intelligent man in a room and knows it" which made her laugh to read, imagining the bitter undergraduate who had written it. Aren't teachers supposed to be cleverer than their students? Otherwise what's the point.

After lingering in the restaurant, reluctant to leave such a setting, and the pleasure of his company, Sansa finally says that she'd better get back so she can finish reading a book for tomorrow. He seems just as reluctant as her to leave, asking the maître to give them a tour of the roof terrace which is rarely used outside of summer, and wrapping an arm around Sansa to keep her warm as they peer over the edge of the railings down to the city. She resists the urge to tuck herself closer towards Petyr, towards his warmth, and breathes deeply instead, smelling the cold air and the spice of his cologne.

"We'll have to return in the summer," he says idly, as he helps her back on with her coat at the entrance to the restaurant, "see the view from the top in the daytime, the sun out on the sea."

"I would love that," she admits.

"It's a date," he murmurs, chucking her under the chin, as she feels a flutter in her chest.

Sometime during dinner - when Sansa was in the toilets maybe, gawping at the velvet benches in there and the golden basins and the row of free perfumes to use – he must have arranged for a driver to meet them because he slides into the backseat of his car after her and nods to the man behind the wheel wearing an immaculate suit.

"I've had too much champagne to drive," he murmurs to Sansa and then leans over to help her do her seatbelt up. His hands on her hips, his cheek brushing against her nose, make her want to squirm.

"Thank you," she whispers and he smiles and sits back.

"Did you like the boots?" he asks as they whizz through King's Landing.

"They're amazing," she says, raising her leg a little to show one off, too warm with champagne to mind that it makes her dress slip up above her knees. It's nothing he hasn't seen when she's worn shorts to their summer coffees after all.

"Lovely," he says, eyes skimming her leg.

She wishes it wasn't so dark in the car, so she could see his eyes properly, get a good look at his expression.

And then the car comes to a stop outside her halls. "Oh, we're here," she says and is slightly embarrassed by the disappointment in her voice.

"Do you need me to walk up with you?" Petyr asks, moving to undo his seatbelt.

"Oh, no, I'll be fine, thank you," she says, flustered as the driver comes round to open her door. "And thank you, Petyr," she says, bending over once she's out in the cold air.

"You're quite welcome," he says, and as she walks away from his car she can't help but hope that he's watching her, that he might feel just as disappointed as her that the night is over.

 

*

 

For their second outing, Petyr takes her to the theatre, just as he had promised. And when he had a box delivered to her from a boutique whose windows she had once gawped at in passing, it included a handwritten note where he admitted that dress codes for the theatre had slackened _but where is the fun in going out for the night without something special to wear?_ She had smiled as she read it, hearing his voice in his words, picturing his smirk.

He had sent her a silver glittering halterneck top, along with a pair of velvet trousers that aren't thin and shapeless like the ones in the high street shops, but luxuriously soft and which fit her perfectly, but then she does fit into sample sizes, she knows, having tried on one or two dresses from Margaery's impressive wardrobe.

It's always tricky to figure out what bra to wear underneath a top like that, but she's decided that the lacy straps of her finest balconette - the one she saved up for all last year for a ridiculously indulgent birthday present to herself (and which actually only cost the price another person might have spent on a couple of tickets to the cinema, but then Sansa doesn't have money to spend on things that aren't essentials - food, rent, heat) - work with the look.

Tonight, she's wearing her hair down, in loose waves that she tucks inside the new coat he also sent her - a pink cashmere because, he said, you can't exactly wear the same coat to every event. Opening the tissue paper that protected the coat, she had almost thought about sending it back but she knew if she did that he'd be disappointed, she could picture what his face would look like, sad and concerned. It's only a coat, she told herself, hanging it up over her wardrobe door so she could look at it and admire its perfect colour, and it's a gift, it would be rude to refuse it.

He sends a car to pick her up, apologising over text that a meeting of his has overrun, but she's secretly pleased that she has a few more moments in the car to get herself together, having spent her own afternoon wrangling with the phone company whose family plan lets her have a phone at all and resorting to an embarrassing mixture of pleading and threatening them with outing their unreasonableness to the press (by which she means the student newspaper whose editor lives on her floor).

By the time they reach the theatres of the West End, she has calmed down, soothed by the heated seats of the car and the classical music playing at a perfect pitch through the speakers, and has sorted out her makeup with the tiny mirror she brought with her.

Petyr is waiting outside for her, crisp white shirt standing out from the dark grey of his coat, and when he opens the door of the car and helps her out, he smiles like he's so pleased to see her and she smiles back, feeling like she's walking on air as he guides her through the theatre and up to the seats in the box to the side of the stage.

"Oh my god," she whispers, glancing around at the rich red of the seats, the plaster roses gilded with gold on the ceiling of the box, the silver tray filled with chocolates on the table in front of their seats, and the heavy velvet curtain that Petyr draws to cocoon the two of them in the box alone.

"It's just us in here, I take a box every season, for tax purposes," he says with a wave of his hand, slipping his coat from his shoulders and hanging it up on the old-fashioned metal coat rack in the corner. "May I?" he asks and she turns her back to him so that he can take her coat too, shivering as she feels his knuckles stroke down her bare arms, his fingers readjust the bra straps that have slipped. "You look gorgeous tonight, Sansa," he says, breath glancing across her bare neck. "Now," he says, picking up the tray of chocolates. "I usually partake of wine when I'm at the theatre but I had the thought that it would a shame for each of our evenings together to involve alcohol, it's good to have a clear head sometimes, don't you think?"

"Yes," she says, although she's thinking that a sip, or a glass, of wine, would be good right now to quieten the buzz of nerves in her stomach. It's just Petyr, she tells herself, you've been meeting up with him for months, there's nothing to be nervous about, but even in her head, her voice isn't quite convincing.

"I thought chocolate might be the next best thing," he says, holding them out as her mouth waters at the selection. "A caramel fan," he says approvingly as she slips the square of chocolate into her mouth and hums.

"It's really good," she says, holding a hand over her mouth so he doesn't see her chocolatey teeth.

"I should think so for how expensive they were," he remarks wryly.

He asks her about her day as they sit and watch the audience below and wait for the play to start and she finds herself telling him about her horrible conversation with the phone company, as she eyes the chocolates and wonders how many she can eat without looking greedy.

"You were right to threaten them," he says, sounding proud, "it's quite illegal for them to change their charges without informing you."

"I didn't really _threaten_ them," she says, voice quieting to a whisper as the theatre goes dark.

As the curtain comes up, she shifts nearer to him so she can see the stage. It's a production of a play she knows well and as much as she's enjoying tonight's interpretation and the innovative staging, the skill of the actors, she can't help but be hyperaware of Petyr sitting beside her, of their legs touching at the knee, of his hand resting on the armrest between them, of how he has to lean across _her_ to take a chocolate of his own.

"Oh," he whispers sometime during the first act, "you don't like orange, do you? I've picked up the wrong one, I couldn't see in the dark."

"I do," she says and feels her toes curl in her shoes when, instead of handing it to her, he brings the chocolate to her _mouth_.

"There," he says, his voice deep and satisfied as she closes her lips around the chocolate, accidentally catching the tips of his fingers with a swipe of her tongue.

"Good?" he asks her.

She nods, her cheeks hot in the dark.

At the end of the evening, he kisses her on the cheek when he says goodbye, after at least one other accidental hand-feeding episode during the second act of a play she couldn't tell you a thing about if you asked, and when she gets inside her rooms, alone, she tips her head back against the closed door and groans with frustration.

He has to know what he's doing to her, surely? Or maybe he's this attentive with everyone he takes to dinner or the theatre.

She undresses in front of the mirror and considers her body in her lace balconette and plain black boyshorts, picturing an audience; picturing a warm, approving gaze; and then she ducks under her duvet, embarrassed by her thoughts, and yet not so embarrassed that she doesn't slip one hand into her shorts and place the other over a lace-cupped breast.

 _Fuck_ , she whispers to the empty room and lets herself imagine a different ending to tonight, of him pressing her against the wall of the box and telling her that she has to be quiet, kissing her neck while his own hands work their magic between her thighs.

 

*

 

For their third outing, he takes her to a gallery opening in the Old Barracks, where the contemporary paintings, Margaery informs her, regularly go for a quarter of a million pounds.

He's sent her a dress this time, navy with a white peter pan collar, whose colour looks a little flat on the hanger until she puts it on and sees it against her pale skin and red hair, and a pair of heeled women's brogues.

"He's got good taste," Margaery informs her as she lies back on her bed and chews red liquorice laces.

Sansa had given in and told Margaery about her evenings with Petyr after she asked during a study session what Sansa had been up to that had put her in such a good mood and Sansa hadn't had it in her to lie.

"You're dating him now, are you," Margaery had said delightedly, "get it, girl."

"I'm not _dating_ him, he's just helping me out–"

"–by taking you on dates?" Margaery asked with mock-confusion.

"No, he was just sad when I said I had given up on romance."

"So he wanted to give you romance...?" Margaery asked, tilting her head. "But they're _not_ dates."

"Exactly," Sansa said, ignoring her friend's misreading of the situation.

"OK then," Margaery had said, smiling impishly and then clutched her shoulders. "Have you kissed him yet though?"

"No," she said, swatting her hands away, "it's not like that."

"He's playing the long-game," she had said confidently, "I like it."

"He is not," she said, with a sigh, and then she remembered her dinner was on the hob and probably burning.

But Margaery hadn't forgotten that conversation, she had barely talked of anything else when they were together, like now when Sansa was round at Margaery's flat to get dressed for the evening, because Margaery had said she could borrow her make-up, a set of unopened lipsticks to be precise.

Sansa has decided to go for the metaphorical big-guns tonight and wear a ruby-red lipstick to see if that can nudge Petyr into making a move on her.

"Red lace?" Margaery asks, propped up on her elbows now and waving a fistful of laces in the air.

"No, I can't," Sansa says, voice distorted by the pose she's holding to make sure her lipliner goes right to the corners.

"Oh yeah, not the sweet to have before any kissing-"

"No, I just meant that liquorice is a strong smell to have on your breath, I'm just trying to be polite," she says, hiding her smile as Margaery cackles on the bed.

"You're the worst liar," Margaery says.

"I know," Sansa sighs and leans back in the chair to check the picture she makes - hair in a high bun that shows off her neck, red lipstick, a shimmer of eyeshadow and a broad sweep of black liner that sweeps up into wings, the white of the collar of her dress adding an innocent touch to her vampish make-up.

"If he doesn't make a move tonight his self-control must be nearing masochism." Margaery says.

"You want to make out?" Sansa jokes, turning around in her seat.

Margaery fakes a swoon, "don't mock me, we both know you're too irritatingly straight for that."

Margaery is notorious on campus for breaking an even amount of girl's and boy's hearts. Secretly, Sansa thinks that Margaery would probably suit an older partner just as much as Sansa is coming to think she herself might.

It's just that the boys her age, and even the graduate students, are so...disappointing. They seem unformed to her, admittedly critical, eye, sloppy or nervous or too-serious or of the boisterous rugby-playing type that makes her want to flee to the girly haven of her neat room.

Her mother always sounds disappointed on the phone – anytime Catelyn manages to snatch a spare moment from dealing with Arya's Judo career, Bran's operations, Robb's attempt to revive the family business, and Rickon's frequent school suspensions – when Sansa says she hasn't found a boyfriend.

 _What about that lovely Harry fellow_ , her mother is fond of saying, as Sansa sighs inwardly, _he was so wonderful and he's from a great family, I think you judged him prematurely._

Should she tell her mother about how their second date involved him pouting because she didn't want to "have a personal tour" of his bedroom, or how he all but mocked her for having to stay on campus over Christmas because she didn't have the funds to fly home?

Tonight is a good distraction from thinking about her mother, and about the email she just got this afternoon from Robb announcing his engagement and how happy he looks in the photo with Jeyne, how jealous Sansa feels. Even Arya has managed to find love, despite being prickly and difficult and crazy busy with her career, and Bran has been with the same girl since he was thirteen. It's just Sansa who is single, and alone, unpartnered.

 

"You know, you could have a side-business as a stylist," she tells Petyr when she meets him at the bar of the gallery. She likes the way his eyes roam her dress, and her body in the dress, although having put her coat into the cloakroom herself she misses the opportunity to have him slide it from her shoulders.

"You look wonderful," he says, his mouth quirking into a smile, and reaches out to tug the collar of her dress. He kisses her on the cheek in greeting, and she shivers at the brush of his short moustache against her skin, and then he puts a warm hand on the back of her neck and says, "and I like your hair like this, it suits you," and she wishes he'd kiss her neck too but instead he turns to retrieve their drinks from the barman. "I got us mojitos, is that alright? I don't trust the rest of the spirits here besides the rum," his lip curls, "they want you to open your wallet for a poor imitation of a Rothko but they won't pay for the good stuff behind the bar." He tsks and she hides her laugh in her glass as she takes a sip and licks the sugar crystals from her lips.

"I like the lipstick, by the way," he says, sipping his own drink and she tries to figure out if he's looking at her more intently than usual, if he wants her as much as she wants him, in his jeans and the blue jumper that brings out his eyes, in the way he's standing there so quietly confident, so still as the room buzzes around them.

"Thank you," she says, and just stops herself from biting her lip, feeling her stomach heat as he smirks.

"Now, let's look at some ghastly, and entirely too expensive, paintings and judge both them and the crowd tonight," he says conspiratorially, taking her arm.

The paintings are colourful but that's the only real thing going for them, the paintwork _uninspired_ , Petyr says as they circle the room, _derivative, lazy_.

"Do you prefer the grand masters then?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

"No, I collect modern art too," he says, "just not crap like this."

She laughs at his look of distaste.

She's noticed the way that people look at Petyr, recognise him, admire him, the way they look at the _both_ of them. They make a handsome couple she thinks, catching sight of their reflection behind the bar as Petyr gets them more drinks.

And perhaps the first one was a little strong because as she takes her first sip of the second she says, "This tastes like you," and as his eyebrows raise, she hurriedly corrects herself, "like you smell, with all the mint tea," she says.

"Mint is my favourite flavour," he remarks evenfully.

She smiles and hopes that her cheeks aren't as red as they feel, but then her good mood fades. She's just spotted Harry's current girlfriend, who she knows through idle facebook stalking works in the art business.

"What is it?" Petyr asks.

"Just someone I know, well, someone who is dating someone I know. I'm guessing she's a curator," Sansa says, watching Samantha, that's her name, she remembers now, stride across the floor looking confident and at ease. "She's done well for herself," she says and sips more of her drink.

"You've done well for yourself," Petyr says, frowning, and nudging her to a quieter corner nearer the windows.

"I get good marks at university, but it's not like that's going to translate to the real world."

"Is academia not the real world?" he asks, leaning closer to her, watching her carefully.

"Well, some departments, the ones with money," she says, "but English?" she shakes her head and screws her eyes shut. "All I want is to get my Masters and do a PhD but I don't see how I can support myself, there's no funding. And my mother would be so disappointed, she'd say I was wasting my talents."

"Sansa," Petyr croons, and touches the backs of his fingers to her face as she opens her eyes. "I hate to see you upset. There's funding available, you just have to find it, when the time comes for you to apply for a Masters, I'll help you, I have connections in many universities. I promise I'll help you."

"Petyr," she sighs and feels the tension of her body ease.

"And don't say that I don't _have_ to, I _want_ to," he says, and rubs his thumb across her chin, watching her so closely that she feels like each and every one of her secret desires are exposed. But it doesn't scare her, his interest in her, his care, she likes it. "It makes me happy to make you happy," he says.

He doesn't kiss her that night, despite the lipstick, despite everything, but she's almost used to leaving their evenings with her body humming with frustration by now and she's already thinking about their next date, and hoping for the thrill that comes from his soft touches, his attention.

 

*

 

It's her birthday a week later and secretly she's hoping he might ask her out to celebrate, though not on the day itself probably, that would be too much, but he sends her a text a few days beforehand apologising for having to fly off for a meeting in Essos and miss her birthday. _But I'll be sending you a few things, so keep an eye on the post_ , he says, _and we shall have to celebrate properly when you're back_.

In the end, she's so busy that week with work and tutoring that she doesn't have time to feel sad and besides, when she wakes up on her birthday itself and, after making herself an instant coffee and answering the lovely birthday messages her friends have sent her, opens the door of her room to three separate delivery men bringing in their load, she thinks that he's more than made up for it.

He's gifted her a ridiculously large, and tasteful, bouquet of flowers – no bunch of roses for him, the flowers are an interesting mix of wildflowers and delicate greenery and exotic blooms with silky soft petals - and a bunch of balloons in various pink and gold shades that make her smile so wide to tug out of the box, feeling, perhaps ridiculously, that it's a sign he's not trying to forget their age difference, that he doesn't mind that she's silly and girly sometimes; as well as a first edition of one of her favourite books that makes her gasp when she unwraps it; a coat made out of the softest fake black fur; and a box of chocolates from the same place as the theatre, _I seem to remember you liked these_ , he writes in a note attached to the extravagant box in all its embroidered glory.

"God, he is _going_ for it," Margaery says when she snatches the note and reads it, having ooh-ed and ahh-ed over Sansa's gifts after bringing around her own, a set of four vintage frames holding photos of her and Sansa that Sansa didn't even realise she had taken, a present whose thoughtfulness makes her honestly a bit teary-eyed.

"What do you mean?" Sansa asks distractedly, trying on her new coat over her pyjamas and staring at her reflection.

"It's like he's some master of seduction," Margaery says, with reluctant pride.

"It's just chocolates," Sansa says, and then grabs one of the orange ones and pops it into her mouth, her eyes closing as she remembers the sensation, the taste, of his fingers on her tongue.

Margaery snorts. "Now, do you want to hear about my date last night?"

"Yes," Sansa says excitedly, leaping up to hug her friend.

"You're hyped up on chocolate already," she complains. "Now," she says, as the two of them settle on Sansa's narrow bed. "I don't want to reveal his identity, but I will say that his family might just be ex-royalty."

" _No_ ," Sansa says gleefully. "If you're talking about who I think you're talking about–"

"–I am," Margaery says with a very satisfied smile.

"Tell me _everything_ ," Sansa says, and she spends a very happy morning with Margaery gossiping and gorging themselves on chocolates.

 

When Petyr gets back, he invites her for coffee, _for old times's sake_ , he says in the text and she can hear the wry tone of his voice. Their outings have superseded the coffees but she finds herself giddy to meet him at The White Hart again, to have him get up from the table to kiss her on the cheek and take her coat, to watch him pour his tea and the thoughtful look on his face when he listens to her talk about her week.

"Now," he says, taking her hand and stroking the back of it with his thumb, "I feel terrible that I wasn't able to take you out for your birthday, and I know that reading week is coming up soon. I wanted to ask you, Sansa, if you'd like to accompany me to Starfall? I have a talk to give on the first night but every other night that week is yours. There's a hotel that I love there, all tall ceilings and glorious seaviews and the staff are so attentive. We'd have separate rooms, of course," he says, "but I'd love to show you around the city, treat you. You've never been there before, have you?"

"No," she says breathlessly, thinking of the pictures she's seen, the stories she's heard of the most romantic city in Westeros. That he wants to take her there for a whole week has to mean something, surely?

"Will you come with me?" he asks.

"I'd love to, I've been dying to visit."

"Wonderful," he says, "I'll email you the details but let me know if you want to change anything. This is your birthday gift, Sansa, I want you to enjoy it."

I'll enjoy it more if I know you're finally going to kiss me while we're there, she thinks, somewhat hysterically, and decides that if he doesn't make a move she might just do it herself.

 

*

 

It's strange travelling with someone other than her family. The Starks haven't had the money to travel for years but Sansa remembers ski trips from her childhood, and trips to the Vale, of her and her siblings squabbling and of always been thirsty and so dry-mouthed, so ratty, by the time they arrived.

With Petyr, travelling in first class, and thinking as he does of every little detail, it's like a dream. No being cramped in a tiny seat on the plane or waiting in the line for a taxi, and who knew that meals in first class come with real cutlery and a little vase with a flower in it. It's ridiculous, and wonderful, she thinks, wiping her hands with the heated lemon-scented towelette the air stewardesses brought round.

When they get to the hotel, she sees that it's barely a hotel and more a converted palace in the old quarter of Starfall, towering many flights high, with balconies under each window trailing gorgeous flowering plants. In the lobby, there are gauzy curtains hung between the weathered pillars and glittering mosaicked walls above burning incense in silver dishes, crisp white daybeds surrounded by towering indoor plants and oriental rugs under foot.

The lift whisks them up to their rooms on the tenth floor and as the bellboy carries in their luggage Sansa stands on the balcony of her room gawping at the view, of the towers of Starfall and the city below, the coastline and the sea beyond.

"Our rooms are adjoined through the dressing room," Petyr says from behind her, "I hope you don't mind."

The dressing room is about as large as their bedrooms, with a white suede sofa, two dressing tables with perfect lighting and complementary lotions and perfumes, and two walk-in wardrobes.

"It's fine," she says, distracted by each new thing she notices. "This hotel, it's unbelievable," she murmurs, touching the row of orchids by the window of the room.

"I'm glad you like it," he says with a smile. "Now, I'm giving a talk at the University about twenty minutes walk from here. I can come back and meet you here before we go out for dinner or the concierge can arrange a tour for you of the city? What would you like to do?"

"Can I come and hear your talk?" she asks, because two weeks ago she might have watched a few youtube videos of his previous talks and though sometimes she found it hard to follow the intricacies of the economic details, she was embarrassingly into his whole teacher vibe.

"You'd like to?" he asks, touching his thumb to her cheek and looking pleased. "Of course you can come."

"Will there be people from KLU there?" she asks then, wondering for the first time if the two of them being seen together might be a problem.

He shrugs. "I don't think so."

If he isn't worried then she supposes she shouldn't be, it isn't against the rules for students to date professors, as long as they're not being taught by them, she checked a few months ago, just because she was curious.

She unpacks her clothes in the walk-in wardrobe with its scented hangers and plush carpet and actual chandelier, marvelling anew at the clothes Petyr had sent her for the trip. She's only had to pack a few of her own things, most notably underwear because he hasn't bought her any of that...yet, she thinks, and then tries to tell herself off for wanting more than she already has, for enjoying his gifts so much. There's a word for a young woman who makes a living from a generous older man but Margaery has been kind enough never to use that exact word when discussing Sansa's situation.

Sansa doesn't need what Petyr gives her and she doesn't have to do anything to get it, it's just a happy bonus of spending time with him, which she'd want to do anyway, as the months of coffees show.

 

It's slower to drive through the old town of Starfall, with its many different levels and towering cliffs, its narrow cobbled streets and bridges over dizzying drops, so they walk, climbing up and down the steps and staircases that make Starfall such a pretty place to visit. They've left the winter chill of King's Landing behind and Sansa is thrilled to only need a cardigan, to feel the air against her bare legs. Petyr told her that they've set out more than early enough to sightsee on the way and he's patient as Sansa stops every few steps or so to take another photograph, to marvel at the weathered sandstone walls, the mosiacs and climbing plants filling the air with their heady scents, the bazaar that appears round a nondescript corner, and the stunning views.

While she's trying to get the best angle for a photo of the tower that was said to have inspired the myth of Ashara Dayne's tragic death, Petyr slips away to bring them back ice-cream and she does her best not to lick at her cone of the most amazing lemon ice cream too lasciviously, although by the hungry looks he's throwing her, she's probably failing. She is having her own issues with the way his tongue is curling around his mint ice cream, the way the smell makes her think of what he might taste like.

At the university, Petyr apologises for having to leave her to meet with his host and tells her there's a ticket set aside for her at the door of the lecture theatre. She doesn't mind having a chance to browse the bookshop and to join the tail end of one of the tours of the university as the late afternoon sun warms her shoulders. Maybe she'll study here one day, she thinks, passing through the stunning cloisters and pausing in a courtyard framed by palm trees and sparkling fountains, looking eagerly at the new rare books library with its sympathetic sandstone walls and stained glass windows hiding the interior from view and protecting the books from the light. Since her conversation with Petyr where he said that he would use his connections to help her with finding funding, she's started to daydream about her future career instead of just worrying about it, and has emailed the postgraduate office to arrange a meeting to find out more about the Masters programme at KLU.

The lecture hall is packed and the only seat Sansa can find, since she arrives embarrassingly late after being distracted by an exhibition of medieval clothing and jewellery in the history department building next door, is on a short row right at the back by the door. But then she wouldn't like to sit at the front and have everyone behind her, she likes it up here, with only the wall to her left and a perfect view of the stage below.

When Petyr walks out after being introduced, with his first button undone and his shirt sleeves rolled up, and opens with an academic joke before segueing into his speech which starts with a provocation that has part of the audience looking startled, she feels her cheeks go red, feels her stomach squirm. This was a mistake, she thinks dazedly – as he continues his talk, his quicksilver mind drawing dazzling connections, as his eyes flick now and then to where she's sitting, as he smirks – because how is she going to get rid of her crush now? And then, once his speech is over and he takes questions, she has to sit and watch him be sly and clever and brusque and smirking, turning the audience's questions back on themselves, drawing an honest to god gasp of amazement at one of his statements, and thunderous applause once the whole thing is finished.

She dawdles outside as the crowd files out, waiting for Petyr who is shaking hands and talking with faculty members, and sits herself on a stone bench, kicking her feet and sighing at the colours of the dusk sky, the salty evening sea-breeze.

"Your verdict?" Petyr asks her when he comes to stand before her, hands in pockets.

"Revelatory, Professor Baelish," she says and it's only half a joke.

He laughs delightedly and then holds out his hand to pull her up to standing, kissing her on the cheek in greeting, even though they've only been apart for a couple of hours. "Now, dinner," he murmurs, holding out his elbow.

They stroll along the streets of Starfall as the lights strung above them blink on, as shopkeepers sweep their front steps and restauranters adjust their outside tables, as the songbirds of Starfall make their evening song in the sky above them.

"I love it here," she sighs.

"It's one of my favourite cities," he agrees, watching her with a smile, "and it certainly lives up to its romantic reputation. It's the narrow streets, I think, stops tour buses from ruining the place. Here we are," he says, guiding her inside an arch of twining flowers and glittering lights, and into a courtyard in front of the Old Temple. "It's not the most exclusive of restaurants," he says, "but the setting is unbeatable."

"It looks wonderful," she says as he holds out a chair for her at one of the outdoor tables in front of an old-fashioned restaurant with a fading sign and shuttered windows.

The tables around them fill up as they make their way through three courses of simple food with fresh ingredients that taste so much better than anything she's ever had in King's Landing, and the hum of other people's conversations, of laughter and chairs scraping as friends join the tables, of corks popping and wine being poured, makes them lean towards each across the table, fills her with giddy excitement.

She knows the wine Petyr has ordered is expensive from its taste, and the look on the face of the waiter who took their order, and each sip is warming her stomach, making her feel languid and warm as Petyr watches her, his eyes glinting and hot, his thumb touching his own bottom lip.

When their desserts are taken away, Sansa starts thinking disappointedly about the separate bedrooms waiting for them, and then Petyr is pulling back her chair and helping her into her cardigan now that the air has cooled.

"Did you have a good time?" he murmurs, thumb stroking the patch of bare skin between her cardigan and dress.

"I did," she says.

As they walk across the courtyard, two flower-sellers, a man and woman in black evening wear, appear, singing and handing out blooms, being waved away by the natives of Starfall who roll their eyes and exclaim that they aren't tourists, thank you very much.

The woman dances over to her and Petyr and offers two of her flowers to him with an exaggerated bow.

Petyr scoffs and turns to Sansa "These orchid-sellers buy their blooms for pennies, did you know that. Still," he says, taking his silver moneyclip out of his pocket and flicking out a folded note that he hands to the eagle-eyed seller, "flowers are integral to romance, aren't they," he smiles at Sansa as the flower-sellers move onto their next mark.

"One for you to hold," Petyr says, and she takes the flower from him feeling oddly bashful. "And one for your hair," he says with a softer voice now, and twists off the bloom of the flower, tucking it behind her ear and carefully shifting the pins that hold her hair in place. There," he says, studying her face closely, "perfect." His thumb lingers on her cheek, his eyes stray to her lips.

Please, Sansa thinks desperately, he has to kiss her now surely, she'll die if he doesn't. He sways towards her, parts his lips and then his eyes meet hers. " _Please_ ," she whispers, and then flushes at how desperate she sounds.

"Sansa," he says, and then he takes her face in his warm hands and kisses her and she melts against him, her hands clutching at his blazer, whimpering slightly as he guides her mouth to open, as his tongue searches out hers, as he sucks at her lips. She shivers as his beard scratches her chin, as he tucks her closer into his body and she can feel the warmth of him, the plane of his chest, feel the curve of his arm snake around her waist.

All these months of him being kind to her, attentive, the dresses and the dinners and him touching her all the time, the teasing stroke of his thumb on her cheek or his hand taking hers, and she feels so hungry for him she wants to climb him out here in the street.

"Let's head back to the hotel," he says, breathless himself when they part, "yes?" he says, hand squeezing her waist and kissing her again.

" _Yes_ ," she says, her lips humming against his.

He huffs a delighted laugh and chucks her under the chin. "Come along now, then," he says, and leads her with his arm around her waist, pausing to kiss her on street corners and underneath streetlights as they scramble up Starfall's many stairways, and then in the hotel lobby itself, behind one of the potted plants, as if he can't bear not to touch her, as she smiles into his kisses and grabs a hold of the lapels of his blazer, feeling her thighs tremble.

In his bedroom, he strips her of her cardigan again and kisses her neck, cards his fingers through her hair as she feels herself sway in place.

He kneels at her feet then, slipping off her shoes, hands smoothing up her bare legs as he watches her with hot eyes, smirking as she gasps when his fingers tug her knickers down and he helps her step out of them.

And then he stands up and takes his hands back to unbutton his own shirt as she slides her dress down, shivering as his eyes roam her skin.

 _Sansa_ ," he says hungrily, and he shoves his jeans and boxers down and tugs her towards him, palming her bottom, stroking her hips, biting gently at her jaw.

"Petyr," she says, feeling dizzy, arms around his neck as he cups her breasts and ducks his head to suck at her nipples, to slide a hand down her middle and put his hand there, right where she's hot and wet for him.

"Oh, darling," he says wickedly, when he feels the state she's in, "let's get you on the bed." He nudges her backwards and she flops on top of the sheets and gazes up at him brazenly without making any movement to cover herself.

She looks her fill of him too, of his firm chest and narrow waist, of his hard cock flushed red. He crawls up over her, mouths down her neck, her breasts, her waist, her hips, and then, with a wicked grin, sets his mouth to her cunt and begins to eat her out with breathless enthusiasm and skill, holding her thighs apart with his hands, holding her down on the bed as her hips buck, as she writhes and comes with a high-pitched moan. He laves his tongue up through her cunt, swirls it around her clit, and crooks his fingers inside of her while he sucks on her clit and she grasps him by his curling hair, whining and coming again.

He moves back, pants as he looks her over, his chin and lips rubbed pink, his smile utterly sinful.

"I'm on the pill," she gasps as he grips her hips, as he rubs the rasp of his stubbled cheek over her hard nipples and makes her jerk.

"Good to know," he says.

His hands are stroking her everywhere, he's dropping kisses on her hipbones, her waist, her thighs, pausing to cup her cunt with one hand and use the other to curl around the back of her neck, to hold her in place while he kisses her, his tongue hot in her mouth.

"Please," she whispers again as he plods more kisses across her lower belly that make her cunt clench, her stomach spasm.

He clucks his tongue. "You never have to beg, Sansa, I'll give you everything you want," he says and lifts her legs up around his hips, fitting his cock at her cunt and then thrusting smoothly inside, making her whine and gasp at the stretch, at his groan, at the feeling of his body pressed over hers, at the filthy words he murmurs to her as he begins to thrust, calling her _a good girl_ , telling her she's _so pretty_ , so _tight and wet and hot_.

 

Later, wrung out and spent, she lies on his chest as his warm hand strokes up and down her back.

"I don't want you to think I planned it this way from the beginning," he says carefully, hand moving to play with her curls.

So what if he had done, she thinks, its hardly a nefarious plan to spend a year taking her out for coffee and being genuinely interested in her life and then taking her on glamorous dates and spoiling her. She knows he'll be good to her, take care of her. That it's not just sex, although the sex alone would be worth it, she thinks, hips aching from last night and lips bruised.

"It's fine," she says with a shake of her head. "As long as it's not a one-night only deal," she says teasingly, looking up at him.

He scoffs, "hardly."

"My mother isn't going to approve of you," she says with a yawn.

"Whyever not," he says slyly, stroking her hair behind her ear.

"Because you're old," old enough to be my father, she thinks.

"I'm hardly decrepit," he says with an exaggerated sniff.

"But I don't care what she says."

"That's good," he says, pressing a featherlight kiss to her cheek, to her chin, her jaw, as her eyelashes flutter. "Because I don't think I can give you up now."

She rasps her fingertips through his short beard. If any other man, or boy, had said that, she might have run for the hills by now, but he's done everything to make her comfortable with him, to prove to her that he's not going to abandon her.

"Shall we take advantage of being up early and go and watch the sunrise from the hills?" he says, voice scratchy with tiredness in a way that is totally doing it for her, although she's not sure it's physically possible for her to come again right now. "I have another surprise waiting," he adds.

"Yes," she says, reluctantly rolling away from him, and the very comfortable sheets.

They scramble into their clothes - Petyr in his jeans and a warm-looking jumper, Sansa in a shirt dress he gifted her and a pair of thigh-high socks that Margaery had secretly slipped into her suitcase - while they watch each other shamelessly, and it's almost as hot as if they're undressing, she thinks as she watches him slide a belt through his belt loops.

"I'm having some very naughty thoughts about those socks," he murmurs in the lift, crowding her towards the mirrored wall and groping her with languid motions that are a world away from how any other boy has touched her.

She clutches at his belt loops and squirms but before anything can progress, they arrive in the subterranean parking garage and she pats at her hair, trying to look less flustered as he leads by the hand out towards a car.

"What do you think?" he asks when her eyes adjust to the fluorescent lights and she sees the pristine 1950s open-top, _pink_ , car.

"Oh my god."

He smirks. "I thought you'd like it, I rented it for our trip."

"I admire how secure you are in your masculinity," she remarks as he snorts a laugh and opens the car door for her.

He leans over to whisper in her ear, "darling, real men eat pussy _and_ wear pink," which makes her swoon and laugh. "Now, shall we go for a drive, or shall I take you back to the hotel? Are you going to be a good girl for me, Sansa?" he asks, with the wickedest smirk, hands flexing on the steering wheel.

" _Petyr_ ," she says, embarrassed by the whine in her voice. "It's you that's distracting me, I'm not doing anything," she says primly, folding her arms.

"Anything but sitting there looking like that," he says, looking at her hotly before starting the car and driving off.

The drive up the winding paths to the hills as the sky starts to glow blue is thrilling – the wind in her hair, whipping past her face, the roar of the car underneath her, Petyr taking any excuse to put his hand on her legs, to fiddle with the hem of her dress.

By the time they've come to a stop at the deserted clifftop, the light is pink and orange and she's hurrying out of the car to lean up against the old stone walls and gaze at the sun rising out of the water beyond Starfall, with the roofs of the city glittering purple and gold, as Petyr put his hands around her waist.

"Worth it for the view?" he asks.

She nods. "Thank you, Petyr," she says, turning her head. "This is so wonderful," and so ridiculously romantic, "I feel so spoiled."

He smirks, pleased, and presses a kiss to her jaw.

 

When they get back to the hotel, Petyr has somehow arranged for an array of tea and coffee and fresh fruits to be waiting for them in the room. She eats a handful of strawberries and raspberries, licks peach juice from her fingertips as Petyr pours himself some mint tea and takes a seat in the leather armchair opposite the bed, rifling through some leaflets and watching her.

"You spent Christmas on campus last year, didn't you," he remarks.

"Yes," she says, bending to take her ankle boots off, the ones he bought her for their first date so long ago now.

"What do you say to spending it with me this year?" he says, "I'll get a proper tree just for you. Or I can buy you a ticket home if you'd rather fly."

She always misses her father at Christmas, always feels the hollow where he should be at home in Winterfell, and it makes her even sadder to see how her mother rushes everyone off their feet as if keeping them busy might stop the ache of grief. 

Is it selfish of her to want to have a Christmas with just her and Petyr this year, without having to spend it with her siblings in their happy couples, with her family hurrying about and the noise and mess of Winterfell, all the social occasions that her mother will drag her to, the carol singing and church services and dinner with Lysa and her whining son, and then opening her single present to find something that doesn't suit her at all - an itchy woollen jumper, a pair of tartan socks – and have to feel thankful even though she'd honestly rather her mother save her money than buy something Sansa can't use.

"I'd like to stay in King's Landing," Sansa says, "it's so busy to fly at that time of year" - not that she'd know - "and if you wouldn't mind if I stay with you...?"

"Sansa," he croons and tugs her down to sit on his lap. "Nothing would make me happier having you as my guest to spoil. Can I tell you a secret?" he asks as he mouths at her neck and she lolls her head back on his shoulder, feeling his hands sweep up her legs and up past her socks.

"Yes," she pants.

"I've already bought you quite a few Christmas presents," he says, and she can feel his smile against her neck.

"You have?" she gasps and squirms as his fingers slide into her knickers.

"Oh, darling," he says, "you should have told me you were in this state," and she moans and grasps the armrests, hips rolling with the perfect rhythm of his fingertips.

" _Petyr_ ," she whimpers.

"I'll help you, don't you worry," he says, and then he gets her up onto her knees and shifts her round so she's facing him, so that he can unbutton his jeans and pull her knickers to the side and pull her down onto his cock as she groans at feeling so full, at the cold spark of his belt buckle against her stomach.

"Oh, _god_ ," she says, nails digging into his back, face screwed up in ecstasy. Sex is never like this for her and last night was _definitely_ not a fluke.

"There you go," he says as she comes with a flutter around him, "good girl," and she hides her embarrassing noises in his shoulder, feeling her cunt pulse again at the sound of his own groans.

Afterwards, he hoists her up and staggers over to the bed, with some help from her because he's really not that much taller than her, and drops her in a giggling heap as he stands at the foot of the bed smirking at her.

He leans over her, hands smoothing up her sides, fingers helping her pull off the rest of her clothes. "Did you like your birthday present, darling?" he murmurs wickedly and then mouths at her stomach, hot eyes fixed on hers.

"Yes," she whispers, biting her lip.

"I want to make some off-colour joke about the breakfast provision at this hotel," he says, as his mouth moves to her cunt, as he laves her clit with his talented tongue and widens her thighs with his shoulders.

"Petyr," she whines and his laughter _there_ , the tickle of his beard, makes her squirm.

"You really do have a _very_ pretty pussy, Sansa," he says and she gasps an embarrassed, thrilled laugh as he fits two fingers inside of her and crooks them towards him.

 

*****

 

As he watches Sansa doze next to him later that morning, Petyr can't help but feel a warm glow of satisfaction, and let his mind run ahead to the day when she'll give in and move in with him for good, how glorious it will be to wake up next to her every morning, sleepy and beautiful, and watch her get dressed from the large walk-in closet he'll have made for her, be there waiting when she comes home from taking the academic world by storm and smile at him like he's the best part of her day.

The Starks were always proud, and Sansa was no different, and though he would have liked, once he found out about the meagre funds available to her even though she was a scholarship student, to fill her bank account with enough for her to live in a nice two bedroom apartment, with a room to use as a study, and money enough for dinners out and nice clothes and all such things that a girl like Sansa deserved, he knew that if he did so she would refuse it and run.

He had to play a slow game, he thought, to have her accept his gifts. And she was intelligent, she would look into things if he tried to set up a scholarship fund through the university and have her as its only recipient.

He's always been patient, willing to do the work, to take the time, for important things.

And it's the same with romance, with sex. Why rush ahead, why paw like those meaty-handed drunken buffoons, lurching themselves at their dates, pushing them and wheedling them, pretending that they're any other woman, interchangeable from the next. Why not take your time, why not value the art of seduction, of getting to know a woman, of getting her to such a state that she'll tremble for you to touch her, that she'll _die_ if you don't touch her. Anticipation makes everything sweeter, richer.

And as for luxury - why would you bother going for anything but the best, why would you let yourself be fobbed off by the obvious external trappings - the glitter of diamonds, the height of a sky high heel, a curtain of pinstraight blond hair - when a perfect jewel like Sansa exists, when elegance is in her bones, when you alone can help her flower into what she should always have been and build the pedestal for others to peer up at in wonder and envy.

That no one else seems to see how extraordinary she is, how exquisite, only proves how useless the majority of the world really is.

Petyr might be nouveau riche, but his tastes aren't, at least not when it comes to the most important things - wine, art, women. He's always had a hankering for the finer things in life and what, he thinks as Sansa tucks herself sleepily under his open arm, is finer than her, than this.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> please comment if you enjoyed this, I'd love to hear from you! :)
> 
> my tumblr: [framboise-fics](http://framboise-fics.tumblr.com)
> 
> and there's a rebloggable photoset for this story [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/179829297317/in-which-scholarship-student-sansa-stark)
> 
> also, if you liked this story, you will probably also like my other fics [soft, soft, slow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13778199) and [Just a casual, temporary thing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13969572)


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